


the bitterness of hospitality

by strange_sentimentality (steel_symphony)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst - Freeform, Oneshot, Other, Rivendell | Imladris, The Last Homely House, failed romance, it's about time i added, unrequited pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-29 20:17:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19837777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steel_symphony/pseuds/strange_sentimentality
Summary: Elrond extends his hospitality to everyone. So why should it be different for you?(Reader is incapable of talking about their feelings like a normal person, everyone suffers.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd

Sometimes, you wonder if the grace he extends is purely out of hospitality. It would be fitting, as he is the head of the last Homely House, the last place travelers are granted refuge. It shouldn’t leave you bitter, but it does. The best you can do is hide it from him, as it would otherwise be an insult. 

You are at a window. You work as a service-person of sorts, mending things as you see fit. Most of the Ways are open to you; you slip through them as you please. More often than not, your presence is unnoticeable. You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

When you are not fixing things, you are singing. The elves of Rivendell have a peculiar way of losing themselves in song; moving from this realm to something _more_ with ease. 

(You are a terrible singer.) 

It does not trouble them. There is magic to be found, in the way the fire dances until someone calls for more wine and loses their restraint and everything becomes a graceful blur. 

It couldn’t be this way in any other court—there are things such as dignity and pride and _public image_. But here it is the norm, this is the life, truly, and you love it even though it is killing you. 

It is at one of these times where you exhibit _restraint._ It is not that you have no love for dancing, rather Elrond is here and you have no inclination to make a fool of yourself. Unhappiness has been gnawing at you like a rat; you fear that if you talk to him your emotions might turn more like a skua. 

(You have no such luck.) 

“——” Elrond says something unintelligible. You think he called you, but you were turning your attention to the fire in hopes that he would not. 

A silence passes. He is the Lord of this place. You would not do him disrespect. 

“Elrond,” you name him. 

“You do not seem to come to these often anymore; when you do you prefer to keep the fire company.” 

“Everyone else dances around it, so I suppose someone should have to.” 

“You have been scarce, your presence missed.” 

Elrond sighs at that. You frown. While it may be his duty as lord of the last homely house to inquire after his guests, you have (indirectly) told him you are _quite fine_ , and that he should leave. Before he causes you anymore heartbreak, preferably. 

“Are you not happy here?” 

“I am content.” 

“There is a difference, then—?” 

“It is of little importance.” 

“Dance with me,” he says. 

You blink. There he goes again. 

“Why?” 

“I do not think there is any other way for you to join the festivities.” 

_Oh_. 

“I could not.” 

“I beg to differ.” 

You cringe at the overused phrase, and he takes the opportunity to make you his unwilling partner. 

“You have been avoiding me.” His voice is soft, and somehow you think he is hurt. His pain twists another barb into you. 

“It is for the best.” 

“You are hurting.” 

“Please, I am fine, and the least of your worries.” 

“Nonsense. The well-being of anyone of my charges is my responsibility.” 

_There he goes again_... 

“And if telling you would cause me further pain?” 

He chooses to ignore that statement, drawing you closer. His face is unreadable. 

“Please, why are you hurting?” 

“I am chasing after an unobtainable dream,” you tell him, smiling sadly. “Any attempts to grasp it would leave me burnt. No—it is more fitting to admire it from a distance.” 

“I—” 

“Elrond, _please_ ,” you implore, fighting his hand off of you. “It is you! Alright, I have told you the source of my discomfort. If you would be so kind as to let me go—” 

He lets his hand drop form your shoulder. You take your leave then, asking for another glass of wine. It’d be best if you forgot this night. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wine of Dorwinion brings deep and pleasant dreams. - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd

The wine of Dorwinion brings deep and pleasant dreams. To you, however, it brings none. You think, even in dreams, and the wine is merciful enough to stop that. You don’t want to think. You want to do you tasks, mechanical, bask in joy and dance in ignorance, then retire. Here, the food is good and wine better, and you have no wish to compromise that. 

The wine is cruel as it is kind, for you wake with a headache. 

“ _Hangover_ ,” you mutter, as you stumble to get changed. The sunlight is bright; you are glad your drunken self shut the curtains. You bump into what feels like every piece of light-forsaken furniture in your room to fetch your shoes. 

_Odd._

You never set them by your door. They are always thrown across the room, landing in odd places like the flower-pot and windowsill. There’s always a chance, though. You don’t remember much, except gazing moodily into the fire and _oh—_

Shit shit shit shit shit. 

Elrond was there, what if you fucked up, what if you ran your mouth, what if you— 

You banished those thoughts. Elves, “wise” as people called them, were notorious drinkers. Elrond would be no different (you hoped). You exhale, and push open your chamber door. 

“Morning!” Someone calls from down the hall. 

“Whoever is this cheery at this time can go suck it,” you hold up a hand in response. “Don’t talk to me unless you have medicine for a headache. Or food.” 

The person laughs, merrily, and you trudge down the hall to the kitchens. Half the bread is yours now, and you are sure the kitchen-hands are whispering about your low tolerance for alcohol. 

Hah. 

It's not like they drunk through—how much _did_ you drink?—a large amount of Dorwinion wine in a short space of time. 

_“_ One a barrel, two-a-barrel, bright red wine,” you slur, parodying a Dwarven mining song. “Drink it in the evening, and you—” 

“You feel you’re gonna dwine.” 

You’d know that voice. 

“Elrond!” You gasp, then lean against the table. There is no reason to be on edge. Apart from the fact that he literally just snuck up on you, and you have _no idea_ what happened that night. “What brings you here?” 

“Same thing as you.” 

Self-pity? _“_ Hunger?” 

“Hangover.” 

“Oh thank goodness,” you grin, offering him half your bread. “I’m not the only one.” 

“You drink to rival the elvenking of Mirkwood,” he takes the proffered bread. “What you did last night was quite impressive.” 

“What did I do? I’m afraid I don’t remember.” _You mucked up you mucked up you mucked up_ — 

“Gazed into a fire moodily, had a rather strained conversation with yours truly, and then decided that it would be a _great_ idea to get yourself wasted. You were just about to challenge someone to a drinking contest, then fell over unconscious.” 

“Damn,” you whistle. There is an amiable silence, until your face pales. “What was the conversation about?” 

Elrond gives you a sidelong glance. He has not missed the way your tone changes, shoulders tense. You seem to curl in on yourself. 

“I don’t recall,” he answers. 

You don’t trust the pensive look on his face, but you’ll take whatever mercy you get. Elrond is lying, you’re sure of it, but at least that means that either he was not offended, or he is doing a good enough job at concealing it. 

“I have work,” you turn to leave. 

“There are only a few awake now. Please, take it easy. You have a hangover—I'd rather you did your duties well and late.” 

_Hospitality_ slides onto his face like a mask. 

“I’m fine.” You’re not, not really but it doesn’t matter: “I feel better with food.” 

“If you say so,” he shrugs. “But if you're not feeling okay, sometimes it’s good to talk to people about your feelings.” 

_Talk to me,_ he pleads. _You’re suffering and you’re doing it in silence and I can’t help you unless you_ _talk to me_. 

“As good as it went last night?” You bite back, because you’re not sure if his plead was _real_ , or just your imagination, and you’d rather not guess and crash and fall and burn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why can we never have happiness? 
> 
> This work is marked as complete because I may add more chapters, however each of them is an ending in their own right. This chapter came to me after re-reading the Hobbit. I am sorry, Elrond, for I am purely bull-shitting your character. It saddens me that I am doing more research into the characterisation of the wood elves; this work was more an exploration of "hospitality" than anything important on Elrond's character. Whoops.
> 
> Sometimes it's good to talk about your feelings. Sometimes it is not the best thing. This protagonist really needs to talk about their feelings. However, "happiness" is a foreign word here and we all will suffer for the sake of plot.
> 
> The song that is parodied is [_Bright Fine Gold_](http://www.folksong.org.nz/bright_fine_gold/brfigold1.html#Par). "Dwine" is an archaic word for "wither away; languish," depending on where you look. They are elves. I can use archaic words for the sake of rhyme.
> 
> People have left kudos and I am ~~happy~~ pleasantly surprised.


End file.
